


Sword and Sheath

by hegemony



Series: This Collision in Mid-Bloom [1]
Category: British Actor RPF, CW Network RPF
Genre: BDSM, Character of Color, Chromatic Character, Corsetry, Dominance, Leather Culture, M/M, Rope Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-31
Updated: 2012-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-30 11:16:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hegemony/pseuds/hegemony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jeff likes things simple and has worked to get the respect he wants and the rhythm his life deserves. He's never met a New Guard Sir that he likes, either. So when a potential rival throws him for a loop, all he can do is sit back and watch as the night either turns into one hell of a mindfuck or the start of something new.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sword and Sheath

**Author's Note:**

> For LJ community 'Blindfold_SPN' round six, from the prompt 'Leather Daddies Fighting for Dominance'. I wanted to play up the leather culture and play down the S&M especially for the prompt. 
> 
> Originally posted anonymously on 22nd-Jan-2012.
> 
> Gently Revised and Extended.

The first time Morgan meets the guy, he balks. 

Jackass is very obviously, very openly watching him work Evans down until he's against the ropes, trembling and simpering the way only that boy can. Jeff's got the kid right where he wants him- frustrated and strung out- when the gentleman puts down his drink and steps onto the platform. He isn't in uniform, doesn't even look like he'd know where to start and those shoes kinda sum it all up: fucking skateboard slip ons, well kept but obviously broken in. He looks like he's walked in from a Nine Inch Nails concert in the '90's, tight black t-shirt and well-fitted leather pants tight through the leg.

Jeff wonders how this guy ever got in the door. His eyes flare with possessiveness, but objecting is rather useless. Evans is not Jeff's property, and it's not like the boy won't go off to whomever will bend him the hardest.

Still, Jeff wants to say anything that will portray his rank, a 'how dare you' or a 'and which family gave you entrance, here?' 

Instead, the man asks, "Master Morgan, I do believe you've missed a spot. May I?" 

The accent bristles Jeff, grabs his attention. His grip on the crop bears down, like he's prepared to take it as weapon. He raises his head, speaks clearly, "You may if you allow me the privilege of your title and name, sir." 

There's a playful gleam in the man's eyes, he's cocksure and perfectly composed in a nest of men ready to treat him as fresh slave meat on the turn of a misspoken word. He'd be omega, not even a choice in partners and Jeff wonders if the guy knows or even cares.

"I don't find myself a fan of titles, Master Morgan, but if you must have my name, it is Elba," the man grins. "Allow me the privilege of teaching this boy of yours a little bit of respect." 

Jeff hesitates, but flips the cane over and offers the well-taped grip to the man. Their hands linger for a second, more than congeniality but less than seduction. Elba bends, asking for silent permission from Evans, before the cane strokes down the line of Evan's thighs, the meat of his calves.

Jeff has never met a New Guard Sir that he likes. 

But he's wrong when a few artful flicks of Elba's wrists are able to push Evans into the territory of screaming, crying, gasping cut open prepared to do anything _begging_. And after, even though Evans would gladly roll over and preform any favor to the exposed cock of a man who's torn his resolve to shreds, the fucker simply swings the cane around, bows his head, and presents the handle like a sheath presents a sword. 

"Pleasure to serve," Elba says, the dry English accent perfect for the level of irony in his voice before he steps down off the platform.

Okay: Jeff's fucking impressed.

 

 

 

 

Sometimes, Jeff forgets that not everybody who comes to this club regularly has an allegiance to a leather family. They don't have to, it's a touch more inclusive than that, but only a little. Some come to watch, others to see what happens to themselves on any given night. Some know what they're doing, coming here. They know which rules to break, which social mores they can bypass. And while it's a bit warped to enjoy the fact that someone's skillfully committed every faux pas in the book, they always have the most interesting time finding their place in the fray. 

Every night Elba shows up, he's there to break the rules. He always does it with finesse, a well tailored wardrobe with a hint of anti-establishment flavor. He only ever partakes in a spot of alcohol at most, a few swallows of a purposefully overpriced drink. He never takes a boy of his own for the night. 

And even more curiously, Jeff thinks to himself, the man across the room blends so perfectly into the shadows that his gaze upon Jeff's work feels less like an assessment of a potential rival's work, and more like an etherial caress along the curve of Jeff's spine. 

Jeff has been seduced before, he's even been seduced here in this club, along the piss-poor paint job of these walls. He's even enjoyed the attentions of women, here, including the likes of mistress Saldana, the owner of all herself. It's not that Jeff is unable to enjoy the less brisque side of S&M culture, how it can develop into something else. But here, the wagons are being circled, Jeff's reactions are being watched, and the very idea of that makes Jeff uneasy. 

The man does play, Jeff discovers. He plays hard, good with rope and even better with time, can take someone under quick as a hypnotist. Jeff's seen those wide hands apply pressure to throats, cocks, nipples and mouths with expert discernment, like his subs don't even have to ask.

The night he subdues both Ackles and Padalecki together should be enough to make any question of Elba's legitimacy in this club cease at once- the vision of the boy literally carrying his whole world tied up into a bundle and writhing as it gets electrocuted on his overly muscled shoulders is surely going to be burned into Jeff's brain permanently, thanks much. And so is that English bark as it urged Padalecki on with foreboding snaps of the single tail.

"Move," he'd growled in that gorgeous accent, pressing on like a ringleader, "before I tie you down where you stand and leave the two of you to these wolves." 

By the end, Ackles had been milked dry, only hard because of stimulation Jeff didn't know the boy could handle. Even while overstimulated, he could rut against Padalecki's frustrated, denied balls and swollen cock just fine, though. The two of them had been tied together in a suspended lover's knot, writhing and hungry and weakened-desperate, begging for the kind of reprieve they knew would not come until the crowd had been satisfied with their disassembly. 

The drama of it all was downright Greek, and easily one of the hottest things Jeff has ever seen. 

 

 

 

 

"I suppose could learn quite a bit from your lot," Elba says as Jeff steps up to the bar, picks up a bottle of water. It's been a day, a long week, and Jeff isn't satisfied with the way things are going down. It's particularly hot in here, something about one of the international leather families coming to town that makes everyone show up and pack together. And even though Jeff could easily scoop up a few twinks and lock them into a back room to 'play daddy' with him somewhere away from the dead-eyed demonstrations on stage, that feels like a hollow option as well. The water's ice-cold and burns a little going down. 

"Was that meant to be as condescending as it came out, Sir?" Jeff asks, a bit miffed. 

Yet Jeff has nothing to lose. Elba's staring at the mirrored wall behind the bar, eyes carefully cataloguing every inch of the busy picture. He's in a deep black trenchcoat and Jeff can see the slivers of harness underneath, the smooth dark skin Jeff knows exists in the shadow-planes of his collarbone. Elba looks gorgeous and powerful, as debonair as a leatherman can get. And if he ends up pissing the guy off, he'll go home and beat off to the thought of what could have been, no harm no fowl. 

"I do understand why I offend you, Morgan," Elba's hand slides around the narrow vial of whiskey. The aroma is appealing; the guy's a man of expensive taste. 

"You do, do you?" 

"Man of your cloth has worked for the kinds of privileges being a master entails," Elba's smile is tight, thoughtful. A hand elegantly rises to make a frenetic motion, a 'and so on'. "You've knelt and kissed the ring before given the chance to wear it. There's a sense of discipline, tribute and all." 

"I'm sure it was very honorable at the time. Spare me the Poetry," Jeff groans. 

"I could never do that, I think. Work my way up the ranks from the bottom to the top." Elba's face loosens a little, his smile cracking into something a little more slick. "Too stone." 

"Nah," Jeff grins. "Nobody's too stone. I bet outside of here you're a big, gay teddy bear." 

"I wouldn't go that far, mate," he chuckles, brings the glass to his mouth once more. The throbbing heartbeat of the cliche dance music scoring the demo seems to penetrate the conversation from the background, and Jeff feels overwhelmed for a second, pin-prick vulnerable. He narrows his focus back down to the man beside him at the bar, their eyes linking. 

"How far would you go?" 

Elba chuckles, finally angling his body inward toward Jeff. He uses a thumb to wipe the corner of his mouth.

Jeff's no fool: he knows these kinds of signals well. 

"How about we say that when the leather comes off, my tastes in men become far more…fluid would be an apt description. And you, Master Morgan?" 

"I think I do just fine," Jeff shrugs. "What do you say we blow this twink-rack and go somewhere a little more private." 

Elba's smile lifts on one side into a knowing smirk. "My place?" 

"I'll drive." 

"A proper compromise, then." 

"Perhaps the first of many," Jeff shrugs. 

"A titillating thought, Master Morgan." Elba leaves a few errant bills on the counter under his glass as tip, turning his collar up to take his leave.

A shiver slides over Jeff's spine, as he watches Elba slink through the crowd, careful not to scuff boots or bump shoulders. Jeff has the tiniest ache to see that backside naked and sprawled out, that gorgeous dark skin wrapping a tight body ready for action.

Jeff hasn't seen the naked body of a fellow top in years.

 

 

 

 

 

Jeff would feel worse about the way Elba slides a finger across the flank of the old Jag if those long fingers weren't encased in finely tailored, broken in leather, light brown and tight like second skin. With the gloves, it's the stuff of immense fantasy, the kind of thing fashion editorials are culled from, and Jeff wishes they were in daylight just to see how beautiful the contrast really is. 

Jeff unlocks the doors, slides in, waits for Elba to do the same, and then locks them closed once more. 

"First things first," Jeff says, turning to the man. "Jeff." 

Those eyes rake over Jeff, cataloguing everything they can under the streetlight streaming in through the roof. "Idris." 

One of those gorgeous hands reaches up to slide over the curve of Jeff's chin, heavy against his beard. They fall into the kiss so easily it's like they've been doing this for ages. Idris' push back is delicious equal pressure, well matched for Jeff's style. The low moan between them as tongues finally touch is a secret, like they'll still get caught even away from the caste system of the club. Idris' skin is warm and soft-smooth when Jeff presses his fingers to the man's jaw, and they stay remarkably civilized for making out like teenagers. 

There's no grabbing or manhandling yet. For what it's worth, Jeff doesn't want it to end. The only reason to part is so they can get somewhere where they won't have to bother. 

"Pleasure to meet you, Jeff," Idris grins. 

"Trust me," Jeff says as he sticks his keys into the ignition and tries not to think of the way his erection's about to split the inseam of his jeans in two, "Pleasure's all mine, Idris. Now, where am I driving to?" 

 

 

 

 

 

Idris' house is modest, a little modern bungalow probably built back in the opulent '80s, but its view of the city is magnificent. Jeff can see through to it from the front door. 

And after, Jeff gets thrust into the wall, his mouth sealed with Idris' as their bodies align. The feeling of erection to erection is too good to ignore, and Jeff groans. There is a bit of a battle for dominance, a playful, writhing summation of who they both are, hands in hair and beard burn. No one wins, as they heave out of breath and try to ignore the feeling of scrutiny. Idris smells like earthy sandalwood and tobacco. 

Jeff pushes the jacket back from Idris' shoulders, shrugging it off to reveal something even more gorgeous than a harness. The well defined body is reigned in with a striking patchwork corset, tight around the middle and flared out a bit at the hips, straps to keep it still looped around the back of the neck. Jeff shouldn't let it show so much on his face, but he's stunned. 

"I don't get it. Why would you wear anything on top of this?" 

"In case you haven't noticed, they take one's fashion choices as sign of rank, there," Idris chuckles. "And while your uniform is very dashing, and I am deathly glad I have not seen you wear a cap, I couldn't imagine what I'd signal to your lot wearing this." 

Jeff itches to touch. The corset's a deep and battered brown, well oiled and only a few shades lighter than Idris' skin. Jeff's heart climbs in his throat as he gives fleeting thought to how _well_ this man preserves his things. He leans in for another kiss, biting and sensuous, tongues flicking against each other and finding ways to fit in each other's mouth. And Jeff has to do something, anything to get back on solid ground before this gets too sentimental and all that's left is two men of an age that should know better than resorting to harlequin cliche. 

So he does the obvious, reaching for Idris' pants, flicking them open, and reaching down to take that damn impressive cock into his mouth. It's so easy, and the room falls silent as Idris' head falls back against the wall, his hands holding tight to the railing, Jeff's shoulders, anything he can find. 

It's been a while but Jeff's always believed there's nothing hard work can't accomplish when it comes to blowjobs. He tests the waters on every stroke, sees how deep he can go. He feels the weight of Idris' eyes on him and knows this must make for a tempting show. Something in Jeff kinda wants to get mouthfucked proper, even if it means this man will never look at him as an equal again. 

Idris' hand reaches down and pulls him back, "We're not back there. Nothing we do here is indicative of who we are to anyone but us, okay?" 

"Could you find a more pussy way to say that, Elba? You wanna cry it out?" 

The dazzling smile that gets is comeback enough. "Oh, I'll make you cry it out."

It's all snapping, filling, choking endurance after that, hips that smell like salt-sweat-skin when Jeff's nose crashes into them and he gets held there, throat constricting around the crown. The corset boning and piping is soft as Jeff's forehead shoves against it, and it's all so hot that he can't think straight. There's a moment where Jeff bares his teeth at the base, a little knick and all of a sudden, he's off the cock, sitting backward as Idris presses him down to the floor and kisses him until neither of them can breathe. 

"Do something not to your liking?" 

"Quite the opposite, actually," Idris grins. "I just thought it might be smart to hold off before we can get you started." 

"Ah, a gentleman," Jeff snarks. "And what are you planning on doing to me?" 

"Don't worry, I've just the thing," Idris says, getting off the floor and offering a hand up. Jeff takes it, and stands still when those huge hands take his vest off. "You won't need this where we're going."

 

 

 

 

There's rope. Jeff hasn't played with rope in years. He's only shackled subs up, a few cuffs always does the trick, but he remembers the days he was on his knees more often than not, and kind of misses the way that rope settles in and almost burns the skin. 

"Tell me no," Idris suggests, but the response doesn't come as Jeff's boots and jeans get stripped off and Idris ties a single loop knot into the rope so he can start to work his magic. 

"What would be the point in that?" Jeff grins. "I prefer 'ouch', myself." 

Idris chuckles, "And here I thought you would deduct points for my lack of etiquette and scene definition." 

Tying the harness around Jeff's torso takes a little while, but Idris keeps touching, exploring, his fingers burrowing under the rope to check tightness, to tie in one design after another. 

"Well if we're counting and ranking here, your ability to restrain is fast coming into question." Jeff points out. "You have a plan for my arms?" 

"Patience," Idris advises, walking around to look at his work. "I'm not restraining you, I'd ask more clearly before I did that. No, this is…different." 

"Not pretty enough for you, Elba?" 

Jeff wonders if this is how subs feel when they're under this guy's will. He knows he's in the presence of a man determined to shatter his resolve, but every movement's like sweet talk, the mark of a man more smooth than sticky. For a second, Jeff wishes the rope would wrap against his wrists, his thighs, make it easy for him to take what will be given soon. Instead, Idris is fidgeting with wrap-ties against the dip in Jeff's collarbone, pressing his lips into Jeff's skin like he's praying, arduously working like he's the worshipful bottom in this equation. And a thought strikes Jeff particularly hard, the complication of it all resonates through him like an underlying theme, the very thesis. 

No, this could never happen back at the club. 

Idris stops, sliding his lips against Jeff's once more. The kisses have become a gentler by a degree or two, aggressively doting instead of just plain aggressive. The moment hangs between the two of them. "What are you thinking, in there?" 

Jeff hesitates. Idris' eyes shine with an extra safeguard. Jeff knows that look. Knows it better than he should, he's given it so many times: _You don't have to tell me, as long as you're okay_. 

"About how long its been since I let someone do this to me instead of the other way around," Jeff acknowledges. 

Idris makes a rather indecipherable noise at that, his eyes lowered as he keeps working meticulously. "And how long has it been?" 

"Surely a man of your caliber knows a lady never tells," Jeff grins. 

There's even more rope, all of it leading in simple wrap ties to Jeff's crotch. He's hard enough to cut diamonds and when Idris leans in and takes his mouth once more, he's thankful for his hands, for the fact they aren't tucked behind his back. The skin of Idris' shoulders is smooth, beautiful, and when Idris kneels in front of him to loop the ropes down and through the legs, the only knot cynched behind Jeff's balls, he feels encased- enclosed, the way he imagines that corset feels around Idris' middle. 

"Surely a man of yours knows we all have our indulgences, once in a while." 

There's a long lick up the underside of Jeff's cock, and it takes everything he has not to twitch and empty onto that tongue right now, but instead, his hips get pushed backward, backward, back to the bed, down. It takes even more than what he has to bite his tongue and not cry out when that knot, that centerpiece puts pressure on his asshole. 

"Now look at you, all perfect and ready," Elba grins. The condom that goes on Jeff's cock is an eclipse of heat, and he really, really wishes he were tied all the way down, has to clutch the sheets in the knowledge of what's coming for him as Idris toes off his shoes and shucks his jeans. Suddenly, Jeff understands the appeal of those slipons, and wonders if they come in leather, too. 

There's a pause for lube, another eclipse of heat that makes Jeff clutch at the sheets and buck his hips into Idris' hand. The knot strokes at him, rough laps at his hole and god, when it presses up just behind his balls he swears there's a spark of electricity crawling up his back. 

He opens his eyes to see Idris straddle him the way a nobleman would straddle his favorite warhorse. There's a moment of tease, the first time sensitive skin slides against sensitive skin, and then Idris takes his cock to the root. "Mmm, just like I pictured." 

There's a rolling arch of his hips for a second, like the body on top of Jeff is attempting to find his own bearing. Once he has, he splays himself over Jeff's torso, rolling his body up and back. 

The leather corset caresses Jeff's skin, the rope, and he arches up against it, body-warm and blood hot. The movement makes everything pull tighter, caressing every spot of sensitivity Jeff has. Idris is gyrating on him like a starlet, his back curling over to take Jeff's cock all the way to the base, and then slowly rolling back up the shaft until only the head's inside. 

"Fuck, you're tight," Jeff groans, raising his hand to fit at the small of the other man's back, and the skin there's smooth and soft, Jeff makes little circles in the skin with his thumb, a silent urging on, the closest Jeff will ever get to begging. 

The kisses they share are frantic, wanton, barely restrained and snarling. They roll over, and over, back and forth, the two of them on top and bottom at once. 

It should be ridiculous. It should be unbecoming. It should be everything it's not. Jeff knows better than to stop the sensory overload of pleasure to question that.

It feels like there are a million hands on Jeff's body, touching him everywhere, pulling the rope taught and loose in the motion of Idris' body against his. It's sensory overload, a flash of alarm right before Idris sits up square on his hips, jaw dropping as he finds his prostate and works at it until he's coming.

Hard. Handsfree. Without permission from either of them. 

"How are you so damn hot?" Jeff whimpers. 

Idris keeps going, working at that one place inside him like he's trying to get another load out before Jeff comes. "I don't know, I don't know, C'mon, Jeff. C'mon." 

Jeff arches his back, lifts his hips into that heat and the ropes tighten one final time, that knot hitching even tighter against him. He can't hold on anymore, he's surprised he got this far. There's nothing left to do but come in a torrent, filling up the condom. The afterglow is fantastic, like falling out of the sky. 

"Fuck."

"Yes, that was very impressive," Idris says, sliding off Jeff's cock. Jeff's hands fly up, keep him close and still. 

They kiss once more. Softer and even more intimate than the ones before. The desperation for dominance has cooled into kissing like lovers, prim pecks and flashes of indulgent tongue. One sharp tug at the knot, and while Jeff convulses in a dizzying aftershock of arousal, the harness falls off him like water.

Jeff has to admit, the man is very good at what he does. 

Idris smiles, closed lipped as he wipes his hands on a towel hanging on a nearby chair, one of the only belongings out of place in the room. He unbuckles the corset and lays it on the bureau, flat in the silk it's obviously spent so much time being packed in. Jeff imagines that later, Idris' hands will artfully clean the sweat away from the leather, conditioning the hide with a sense of ceremony. There's a fondness to that image, thinking of the man's eyebrows knitted together, the cloth working in soft, manageable strokes to massage in the oil and repair whatever damage comes with wear. 

Idris looks more satiated than pleased with himself, and Jeff feels a swell of pride that things have worked out this way. 

"Bathroom's the first door on the left," Idris offers, his fingers lovingly coiling the rope to place it back where it's come from. "I suppose you're completely in your faculties to leave, with your car and all. Personally, I'd prefer if you stayed." 

"For round two?" Jeff asks as he turns to sit on the side of the bed. 

Idris undoes the bedsheets with a well practiced tug, sliding them free from their duvet fold at the bottom of the bed. He lets them settle before peeling them back. "That wasn't my motivation for offering, but I suppose we could entertain the idea, you and I. After a nap and some tea, of course." 

"Do you enjoy being this much of a fucking English stereotype?" Jeff jokes, getting up and padding to the door.

"You may loathe it now," Idris yawns, "but in time, you'll learn to find it exotic and charming in equal measure." 

Jeff chokes on his laugh and turns back, looking at the body that has remained at least partially clothed since they met as it spreads out in bed. Elba's fit, fitter than a man should be at his age, but where the biceps and torso dovetail into a rounded stomach and cut thighs, Jeff thinks of putting his tongue in an hour or two. In the bathroom, he looks in the mirror and wonders if this is the start of something new or merely a mindfuck of a one night stand. He walks back out, sees Idris dosing sprawled out on the bed and freezes. 

This isn't him. He doesn't take people home from that club. He doesn't fuck other tops. He's never the guy who gets fucked at the end of the night and he's busted his ass to get into just that: a situation that fits the long hours and jagged edges of the rest of his life. He doesn't particularly invest in feelings for people who aren't already in his family, leather or biological. This isn't--

"Stop doing that thing where you brood and get into bed, Jeff," Idris groans. 

Damn, this guy's _really_ good. 

Idris sleeps hot like a furnace, a low snore and radiating heat. It's a good thing: Jeff's always too cold when he's trying to get some rest. They sleep through the rest of the night, and well past the morning. 

 

 

 

Jeff doesn't have the finest clue how, but they make the morning after work. And the morning after that. And the morning after that one, too. They're not together, nowhere near that serious and Jeff imagines that helps a little. It's rough sometimes, and they'll have to work at that eventually, but right now it's worth it if only for the rebellion of it all. 

No, they're not twenty-somethings 'in love' like Ackles and Padalecki. 

So even when they see each other in the club, even when Idris grins and points out an oversight on some anonymous Sub's skin like the sadistic little inside joke that it is, even when Jeff relinquishes his instrument, he never lets his heart go aflutter. Even when he watches closely for how those hands grip at the handle and how that accent gets into the sub's head and how he wears them down to the most basic of desires, Jeff never skips a beat. 

As Idris looks him in the eye, flicking the handle around in his hand and presenting it the way a sheath presents a sword, Jeff does smile inwardly. He allows himself to feel a swell of affection and arousal. The ambiance of the club narrows down in that one second until it's just the two of them. 

In those moments, Idris has him eating out of the palm of his hand. There's no sarcasm in that voice, no irony or wit as it shapes around 'Pleasure to serve.' No, it's doublespeak for 'have dinner with me tomorrow night, I'll make your favorite' or 'take me home and I'll suck your cock until you scream' or maybe it's 'i'd kneel for you and make you kneel for me, anywhere but here'. Jeff's old enough to admit to himself that he could last for weeks on that communication alone. Hell, sometimes he does hold out in a game of chastity and entendre, a test of power and resolve. 

Jeff always takes the handle back, watches as the soft hand recedes, and nods. He, too, has cultivated a respect for ceremony. "You always take care of me, Mr. Elba." 

Idris shrugs, scoffs. "It's what I'm here for." 

No, Jeff thinks as he watches Idris step off the platform and walk away, the man is here for more. 

Jeff doesn't think he could enjoy it any other way.


End file.
